Morphine Toast
by the ticking clock
Summary: He'd laughed when the doctor had told them the diagnoses, "Cancer is so boring, John!" Oneshot. Angst-ridden. Inspired by the film, Third Star. A bit OC.


**This is an attempt to rid myself of the dreaded writer's block. Filled with angst and feels. Inspired by the wonderful film Third Star. (I guess it can almost be considered an AU of Third Star? Maybe?) Anyway, go easy on me. I know that this is pretty horrible. Argh. **

So I raise a morphine toast to you. And, should you remember that it's the anniversary of my birth, remember that you were loved by me and you made my life a happy one.  
_And there's no tragedy in that._

_~James, Third Star _

Sherlock's eyes are closed. He looks terrible-white skin stretched over whiter bone, gaunt and hollow, cheekbones standing out in dark shadows across his face. His eyelids are a pale, almost-purple.

John can hear him breathing, the soft rattle of lungs working too hard and a throat that is too dry-a sort of guttural wheeze. He's lying on his back, hands crossed, those pale, thin fingers interlaced across his stomach.

He looks like a corpse.

Dropping to his knees beside his friend, John gently pries Sherlock's fingers apart to reach for his wrist. Sherlock's pulse is steady.

"John?" His name is just the barest rasp of a breath, but when John turns the detective is watching him.

When his eyes are open Sherlock looks more alive. There is more color in his gaunt face, even if it is only the blue of his eyes. "Yeah," John says, offering him a grimace that is supposed to be a smile, that he knows his friend can see right through, "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock is still Sherlock. He rolls his eyes. "How-how do you think?" the words choke off into a cough that sounds wet and painful, and John quickly slips an arm around his friend's shoulders, supporting him. "Come on, get up, it'll be easier."

Sherlock shakes his head, shoulders still shaking. He doesn't have enough breath to speak just yet.

"Yes you bloody idiot. Come on," John sits on the edge of the couch and maneuvers his friend so Sherlock is half lying across his chest, head propped against the doctor's shoulder.

"Hurts," Sherlock whispers, tilting his head back. His curls are wet with sweat against John's neck.

"Yeah," John says softly. "Yeah I know."

"Will you miss me, John?"

At first John thought he'd imagined the question. It is something horribly sentimental for Sherlock Holmes to say, but when his friend's fingers tightened around the morphine pump, John knows that he heard correctly. Sherlock is scared.

John's throat closes and he wants to say yes, wants to say something, but he can't. He lets out a sigh that it takes all his self control not to turn into a sob.

"I know," Sherlock says, "I know."

Of course he does.

He's still Sherlock Holmes, even if he is dying.

* * *

Death is not a new concept to John.

He's a doctor. He's been in wars. Hell, he's been shot. Sherlock's been shot.

But this is different.

For them, this is a new kind of death. The torturous, slow kind.

Cancer.

Just the name makes John want to throw up, to scream, to hit something. Because it's so ordinary. So bloody ordinary. Cancer? That was for everyone else. Unfortunate children. The elderly. Not Sherlock Holmes. He'd even laughed when the doctor had told them the diagnoses. "Cancer is so _boring, _John!"

Boring.

Because holding Sherlock's shaking body while he vomits into the toilet is boring. Listening the rough rattle of his breaths is boring. Pumping him so full of morphine he doesn't know what day it is anymore is boring. Watching him cry-actually sob-is boring.

John is never bored.

* * *

One day, when they are sitting on the couch together, Sherlock's head in John's lap-he's been having terrible head aches that not even the morphine can get under control-Mycroft comes.

He does not announce himself, he never does.

A simple, "Hello, John," is all he says as he comes to crouch in front of them, all awkward elbows and knees and a suite that is still in perfect condition despite their current situation. He sits right down next to a bucket of Sherlock's vomit and doesn't even flinch.

"Hello," John says. He's sure he ought to feel angry. To ask why Mycroft hasn't come to visit sooner, why he is here now, but he doesn't have the energy.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, again, but he says, "Hello, brother mine."

Mycroft's mouth makes something like the shape of a smile, "Hello, Sherly."

Sherlock groans, and for a second John panics, reaches for morphine, smooths back his hair, anything, but then he realizes that Sherlock is laughing. "Have we resorted to childhood nicknames, _Mike?_"

Mycroft does smile now, "well you're acting like a child."

"I'm dying," Sherlock says with remarkable steadiness.

"I've heard," Mycroft says, considerably less steady, and strokes back his brother's curls. "Whatever are we going to do with you?"

Sherlock smiles, and John feels something in his chest twist, and suddenly it's hard for him to breathe, watching them. These two brothers who are so different from anybody else in the world, but are now reduced to such a normal goodbye. Such an ordinary one. Cancer. John bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out in frustration.

Mycroft looks at him, and John sees pain and sympathy and _emotion _behind those normally dead eyes. "Little brother," Mycroft says smoothly to Sherlock, "would you mind if I borrowed John Watson for a moment?"

John looks quickly down at his friend, "are you-"

Sherlock waves a hand and closes his eyes again. 'Go. Stop hovering."

So John gently slips Sherlock's head off his lap and onto their couch pillows, and follows Mycroft into the kitchen.

* * *

"Has he told you yet?" Mycroft is not looking at him, but down at the handle of his umbrella, fingering the worn wood as if it is the most important thing in the world.

John wants to grab the umbrella and snap it in half. "Told me what?"

"His plan."

John swallows. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Mycroft finally levels a look at him. "Come now, John."

"um," John's throat is dry. He swallows again. "He hasn't, no."

Mycroft nods. "He will soon, then."

"Has he told you?" John isn't sure he wants to know the answer to that question. The idea that Sherlock would be keeping something from him, even now-

Mycroft shakes his head. "He didn't have to. I know my little brother, John. He can't live like this."

"He's trying," John says, a bit more loudly than he intended.

Mycroft looks at him, and it is almost pitying, which makes John even angrier, "John," he says, gently. "You have-"

"If you say let him go, Mycroft-"

Mycroft holds up a hand. "That's not what I'm saying, John." He reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a bag of pills. He presses them into John's hand, closes his fingers around them. The bag is cool and plastic and crumbles in John's grip. "For when he's ready," Mycroft says, softly.

John can do nothing but nod.

The elder Holmes turns and heads back into the living room, pausing to look over his shoulder at John. "You will call me, won't you?"

"Of course."

Mycroft nods, and goes to say goodbye to his brother.

John watches from the kitchen as Mycroft gently pulls Sherlock up into a sitting position and holds him. Sherlock's head is cradled against Mycroft's shoulders, Mycroft's hand is pressed against his brother's curls, the other wrapped firmly around his waist. Mycroft's lips are at Sherlock's ear, and he whispers something that John can't hear, but it makes Sherlock smile.

John steps in as Mycroft moves to leave, gently supporting Sherlock as Mycroft untangles himself. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's chest and leans back, head against the pillows. Sherlock's head rolls against his shoulder. Mycroft raps his umbrella on the floor. His voice is thick with tears. "Stay out of trouble you two."

Sherlock huffs a laugh and John answers for both of them, "always do."

* * *

Sherlock waits until Mycroft's car disappears completely before he says, "Mycroft told you, didn't he?"

John says nothing. He doesn't know what else to say. He's angry and hurt and he is trying so hard not to cry that his entire body physically aches.

"I can't do this anymore, John," Sherlock says, and it is almost pleading, pleading that John understands. "I can't live like this, my brain is rotting, I can't think, I can'd do _anything_," his voice breaks a little and he laughs, tilting his head back against John's shoulder. His cheeks are wet. "This isn't life, John."

"What the hell am I supposed to say to that, Sherlock?" John demands. "What am I supposed to-"

"Shh, shh," Sherlock says, oddly gentle. "Shhh, it's alright, John."

"No, it's not," John growls. He's crying now, not the chest aching sobbing he wants to, but he's crying a little, and it's something of a relief. "It's not, you _idiot._"

Sherlock doesn't say anything. He reaches for John's hand and squeezes it.

* * *

Finally, John breaks down.

He's in Lestrade's office, on the phone with Mary(She's away on a business trip, staying with Sherlock's parents, actually, which John can't help but find horribly ironic) and the moment she picks up the phone he is sobbing.

"John, John, shh," she says, not at all frantic-she's got a good head on her shoulder's, his Mary, "Is he...?"

"No," John gasps, "but he, he has a-"

She understands, instantly. "Oh John-"

And then he is crying again, harder. So hard that he can't breathe or see, and nothing exists but the phone clenched tightly in his hand and Mary's voice on the other line and the pain.

Lestrade comes in, eventually, once John is in control of himself, to sort out the details.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes dies on a Wednesday.

It's such an ordinary, boring sounding day. The middle of the week. Wednesday.

John doesn't know if he will ever love Wednesday's again.

Sherlock is in his arms, his head pillowed against John's collarbone. His breathing is harsh in John's ears, almost angry.

"Shh, try and relax," John whispers. He's not crying now. His voice is steady. He doesn't feel like this is happening to them. It's all a dream. "Just close your eyes. Breathe."

Sherlock does, his chest straining under John's hands, but his eyes are blue and wet and _open_, fighting it. "John."

"Yeah?" John runs his free hand through Sherlock's curls, memorizing the texture.

"I'm scared."

"I know. Me too. Close your eyes, I'm right here."

Finally, Sherlock does. And John holds him until they take him away.

* * *

Later, when he's cleaning out their(his) flat, John finds a note. It's not a suicide note. It's clear and cut and to the point. Very Sherlock. It's made to make him laugh.

_Dear John, _

_ You can keep the skull. _

_ SH _

John looks at the skull, covered in a layer of dust on their mantal. He takes it down, runs his finger over the smooth bone. "Alright, Sherlock," he says and smiles. "Thanks."

***Cringes* arghhhh that was so terrible. *hides face* but I think I got ride of Writer's block so yay?**

**You should all check out Third Star if you get a chance. It's available on hulu. It will make you cry. A lot. Also it's just gorgeous. (And Benedict Cumberbatch is in it)**

**Anyway, Happy Reading! **


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